Penguin Suit
by reinadefuego
Summary: The first four words she says when Harvey returns home are 'you look like garbage.' Yep, he's back. Russell/OFC. Post-Chicago. One-shot.


"Hey, darlin'."

His voice is smooth like bourbon and it's in that moment she knows she's in trouble. Leaning up against the dresser, Harvey lifts one leg and eases his dress shoe off, and repeats the motion with the other shoe. Blood and dust stains his suit, leaves her wondering just where the hell he's been for the past week. "You look like crap."

"Yeah." Normally he calls once a week. It's an agreement they've kept to since they moved from their old apartment in the South. Harvey travels all over the country in his work for an OGA and truthfully, it's the least he can do. Keeping her up to date means he doesn't have to wonder if she's worrying about him. "You mind making me some—"

She gestures to the steaming mug on the dresser. They've been together for five whole years now; what, does he think she hasn't memorised his routine? He comes home, has a shower, gets all the dirt and grime off himself, has a coffee, and jumps under the covers so they can spoon. "Were you there?" Sara asks, "in Chicago?"

Harvey nods. He peels off his black suit jacket and dumps it in the laundry basket, revealing a white business shirt stained brown with blood that's thankfully not his. If he ever lied to her, it'd be about something important. Something on par with a threat to national security. A gorilla and some idiot scientists thinking they could make weapons? That's an average day for him. "Met the gorilla. His name's George."

"Sounds like you had a fun week."

He makes a so-so gesture and tugs off his pants and boxers, revealing scarred and muscled thighs coated with a fine layer of dust. He's got dust in his ears, in his hair, his shoes; it couldn't be helped he supposes. When buildings come down and part of a city is destroyed, you're bound to get dirty. Even more dust falls to the floor as he shakes out his hair and says, "I'll vacuumn that up later."

"Mm-hmm." In only his wildest dreams would she ever let him get into bed looking like he just walked off the set of a Village People tribute show. All he needs is a hard hat and Harvey won't look at all out of place. "I'm glad you're back."

Harvey smiles as he walks into the ensuite bathroom. It's been far too long since he had a chance to relax for more than twenty minutes, and tonight is going to be one of the best damn nights of his life. "So am I, sweetheart."

* * *

He takes his time, scrubs every inch of his body till all the dust and dirt's washed down the drain and it doesn't feel like someone's rubbing his balls with sandpaper every time he walks. Harvey would've had a shower in Chicago but between organising transport for George, Kate, and Davis, and figuring out just what the hell he's going to say to his superiors, there hasn't been time.

She takes the coffee into the ensuite while it's still hot and passes it to him. The glass is all fogged up and there's so much steam Sara can only imagine what the water must feel like. If not for fear of a burn, she might've joined him too. "Harvey?"

"Mm," he sighs, and drains his mug in under a minute. The coffee's right on the edge of being too bitter and the caffeine pushes him toward full alertness. Harvey sits the mug on the shower rack and leans forward so the shower can pound his back and soothe his tight muscles with hot water. After being pulled out of a crashing plane while unconscious and subsequently finding himself alive, his body began reminding him he's nearing fifty-one years old. "I'm getting too old for this shit, Sara."

"Depends which 'shit' you're referring to," she teases. There's nothing more sexy than a man who knows when enough is enough, or one who understands that sometimes you just want to escape the world and go somewhere quiet. Two years ago, Sara quit working for the same OGA Harvey still dances like a monkey for (although she'll never say that to his face).

The cheeky grin on her face tells Russell all he needs to know. He turns around, drops the temperature, and waits for her to join him. Some days it's like this, some days it's not. He stretches his arms towards the ceiling and rolls his shoulders to further loosen his muscles, and waits. She takes her time getting undressed and _goddamn_ if she isn't one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen. There's a tattoo on her sternum of a dagger that runs right between her breasts, a curved scar down the side of her stomach from a mission gone wrong, and a small ugly mass of scar tissue on her right shoulder just near the socket joint. That one might have (technically) been his fault. Wouldn't you know, bullets bounce of walls.

"C'mere." The bed is where he'll really get them into a rhythm, but the shower's good enough for foreplay. Harvey braces one hand against the wall and looks at her as if to say 'what now?'. Sara doesn't move an inch, just stands there and smiles. Eventually her smile fades, and all he can do is wonder. "Not in the mood?"

"I am, just—"

Right. The shower's a litte too cramped with him alone inside it. Harvey turns off the taps then steps out, slips an arm under her legs and one around her back and lifts her up like he's thirty years old and can still benchpress a hundred and fifty pounds. His lips brush her ear and Harvey whispers, "I am gonna make you wish you could walk tomorrow just so you can get these clothes off again."

* * *

He brings them breakfast in bed: coffee, with pancakes and a swirl of maple syrup. No bacon, no eggs over easy, the menu this morning is the basics and nothing more. Right now it's all he feels like eating. His thighs and back ache so damn much that just getting out of bed was a chore. Harvey sets the two plates down at the end of the bed then slides under the covers and props himself up against a stack of pillows, groaning in relief at the sensation of comfort.

"Thank you, baby." Sara kisses him on the lips, slow and gentle-like till his hands are on her hips and he's tugging her closer. She'd never think of asking him to quit work and retire, it's too important to him (and far too complicated to go about) but some days she wishes he was home every other week. Before they can take it any further, she pulls back and reaches for her plate of food; once he's recovered enough and doesn't sound so tired, _maybe_ they can go for a third round. "Have you called your friend yet? The one with the gorilla?"

Harvey shakes his head. Okoye will call if he needs anything, or Caldwell; they're somewhere along the Mississippi and he's got a team in place keeping track of them in case anything happens. He's trusting the pair to do their job and hoping they trust him to do his. "I'll give 'em a couple more days."

After breakfast is finished, he sets their plates and mugs down on the floor and out of the way. If they're on the bedside drawer, there's a good chance he'll knock them; right now, Harvey doesn't feel like getting up and walking all the way to the kitchen. He'd rather curl up here and spoon again, memorise the feel of her skin and eventually find himself between her thighs.

"Sweetheart, you ever think maybe you—"

Sara looks him in the eye and frowns. They've had this conversation before, and no matter how many times she tells Harvey, there's always a fragment of cynicism that lurks within him. She understands it's a self-preservation thing, a scar left over from an ex or someone, perhaps even a foreign spy who manipulated him, but Sara isn't any of that. She's just a woman who drives forklifts in a warehouse and makes sure everything's in place for shipping. "No, I don't."

He slides across the bed, slips his arms around her waist and tugs her as close as she allows. This is one of those times and most certainly one of those days. For some reason, there's a maelstrom of doubts and hesitations swirling in his mind and Russell can't shut it down.

"C'mere," she murmurs, carding her fingers through his thick black hair. It's soft and tickles the skin of her palm, unlike that stubble he's got growing. Perhaps for once, they can spend the entire day together and she'll find out what's got him so down. "I think you need to remind yourself just who you are and how we got together, Special Agent Russell."

"Oh I know exactly how we got together." He couldn't forget it if he tried. All that fire, that stubborn spark; she'd walked right up to him and threatened to shoot him square in the face if he didn't get off her property. At the time, she hadn't known he was an agent from an OGA; all Sara could really tell was he was a man who looked pretty good in a penguin suit and was trespassing and poking around her garage.

"Good. I love you, you know that, right?"

Harvey rests his head on her shoulder, closes his eyes and sighs against her skin. She's always so warm, so peaceful; it's the first thing he looks for whenever he comes home and every time he finds it in her. "Yes, ma'am. I love you too, Sara."

"Now how about we snuggle for a little while longer then see if we can't find you some clean clothes and a pile of wood to chop," she suggests, and rolls onto her back. There's something so pleasing about just sitting around and watching him swing an axe. Perhaps it's that she gets to see those muscles stretch and contract under his shirt, maybe it's the erotic aspect of a man doing what a man does best, and very possibly she just likes being able to ogle her future husband without being judged for it.

He adjusts his position and kisses the hollow of her neck, stretches one arm over her stomach and forces himself to find contentment in this small gesture. Harvey doesn't have to go anywhere and for now that seems like the best suggestion she could've made. "Yep, sounds good to me."


End file.
